my_thestral ◾ ◾ Fic: Art of denial (Part 11/2)

Author's note: Another part of another part... goddamn me and my ability for atom-splitting (*repeats the action of banging head*) Hopefully I can wrap up the wedding part soon.
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Word count: 1787 (this part)
Rating: PG-something?
Disclaimer: See what was posted 10 minutes ago

For once the magnificent woman was on edge. Ever since Draco approached her with an unusual request to invite Ron Weasley to the wedding with nothing but “he’s my partner now” in a way of explanation, she felt disaster looming over their heads. She knew as well as Lucius did, that having a Weasley at the wedding was just plain wrong – but she felt compelled to give Draco what was clearly important to him, because she couldn’t get rid of the feeling he was only doing this for them. It was clear in his disinterest regarding everything that had to do with a marriage that he did not want this for himself and as astute as Narcissa was, she was beginning to suspect that something other than mere unwillingness to waiver his freedom was under her son’s evident lack of enthusiasm.

The girl they have chosen, Astoria, was more than a excellent match – she came with wealth, unblemished reputation – her mother had kept her safely away from the war on the continent – and she was well-bred, a pureblood and about as pretty and graceful as they came. Even her temper was moderate and Narcissa was sure they would get along splendidly, as the young girl proved more than willing to follow her guidance. But nothing, absolutely nothing seemed to be able to make Draco more interested in the match and as the days moved closer to the wedding date, he became increasingly more edgy, moody and depressed. The only time she felt a sense of calm and joy radiating from him, was - curiously enough - on Fridays and it didn’t take her long to figure out that Draco miraculously disappeared every Thursday evening.

The situation was bizarre and more than a little odd and Narcissa was determined to come to the bottom of it. And was very put out when she realized she couldn’t. With wedding practically on their doorstep, she was none the wiser as to Draco’s curious disappearances on Thursday and his elated disposition on Friday. She would have shrugged it off normally as in “everybody needs some privacy to themselves”, except her acute senses told her that there was some sort of danger to their carefully laid down plans regarding her son’s future radiating from those unexplained absences and she couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something was not quite right.

And when she met Ron Weasley, really met him in person, for the first time after the war, her every instinct screamed at her that she was right. Not only did he grow up into a breathtaking young man, whose magnificent posture and flaming hair had heads turning as if by a magnet when he walked by, but her son’s reaction... it was more than enough to tell her that this, the young man right here, was the cause of her son’s irrational behaviour. For Merlin's sake, they literally couldn’t take their eyes of each other and even when Ron put on a carefully orchestrated performance of flattering Artemis Greengrass, Narcissa had a distinct feeling it had all something to do with the way her son’s eyes never left his face. Draco looked... spellbound. And from the body language alone she could guess his feelings were reciprocated by the redhead.

And this scared her. Pureblood marriages were not just ordinary marriages, they were meant to be bonds of heart and mind, nearly impossible to dissolve, the separation of such a liaison was unthinkable. And yet, here, her son was about to make one with the person that was clearly not his chosen one... In her books, that was more than a cause for alarm.

So she followed him to the dressing room. The closer she came, the more she found herself trembling. Almost by the door, she could still hear no sound, but the magic that pulsated from behind the closed and warded door was such, that it nearly knocked her off her feet. It was old magic, humming with charge and pregnant with unfathomable power, and when she cast a spell for detecting its nature, she saw it was rich with colours of gold and black spilling into each other, its glow venerating the humble door of the dressing room into that of a shrine. She had never seen such a dazzling mixture of darkness and despair on one side and glowing lustre of love and devotion on another, clashing against one another, the dark devouring the gold and the gold eating through the darkness like acid. And she found herself shivering because the last time she had witnessed something this powerful it ended up with a dead Horcrux and Harry Potter’s rise from the dead and since that day magic of such majestic proportions scared her beyond the point of reasoning. And by no means did she want to see her son in the middle of it, so she did the only thing that seemed sane: she tried to interrupt it by rapping on the door - and indeed had the colour dissipate as if it was only ever a figment of her imagination.

But when her son finally emerged - tall and proud, with an impeccable cold elegance that seemed every bit cast in stone - and offered her his arm for support, she found out she could not go on.

“What just happened in there, Draco?” she asked and realized with surprise that her voice sounded chipped off and shaking. “Who do you have in there?”

But her son merely looked at her with his impenetrable grey eyes and answered quietly without batting an eye: “You know who. Nothing escapes you. Shall we?” he repeated, as if he wanted to distract her from obtaining an answer to her other question, but Narcissa did not move.

“What happened in there, Draco?” she repeated instead, as quietly and as adamantly as he did, determined to come to the bottom of this impossible unimaginable affair once and for all. And this time there was a crack in his marble façade, this time there was an echo of the magic she felt before; a glimpse of some wild dangerous passion flashing through his eyes when he answered bluntly, almost brutally:

“I left my heart in there, Mother, that’s what happened. And now I’m taking the rest of me, whatever little there is left, to the altar of your dreams, yours and Father’s: my name, my wealth, my lineage and whatever else is of that rot. And she can have it all for all I care, all the glittering worthless parts of me, all that and more - but not my heart… I gave that to another. Because that’s just how cursed I am. Enough of that, you can’t break me more than I already broke myself, so let’s get this circus over with, shall we?”

And this time he turned away abruptly without waiting for her to follow, but she did anyway, hurt and scared and with a distinct feeling that this whole thing was going to turn into a disaster of epic proportions. She couldn’t have felt more devastated if he told her he was cancelling the wedding: at least that way she could do something about it, used her cool head to deal with the consequences, but this way she was reduced to the role of the helpless spectator as her son went head-on into a calamity. A lot of pureblood marriages were arranged, her own included, but no fool would ever allow two people bonded when one was clearly already given to another. There were other things at work at magical marriages, not only the rings and the beautiful clothes. She had a feeling she had interrupted something that will need closure at one point or another and it scared her to think what that closure might be.

But Draco was lost to her to pry with more questions. He had already walked towards his father with a fake smile plastered to his face and Narcissa knew Lucius would never know the difference nor would he care as long as he got his bidding. She loved her husband, but sometimes he was just as head-strong as a bull and plain thick in his stubbornness to look left and right from the goal he had set for himself. And Narcissa knew, she justknew this marriage cannot end well. And the very knowledge that she had made her son so profoundly unhappy took all the joy out of this day for her. But there was precious little she could do.

She saw Ron Weasley slip quietly to his place, his pretty eyes slightly red, but his expression blank, as if everything behind the beautiful façade of a pale freckled face was dead, and she finally realised why Draco had insisted on seating him at the edge of the first row: this was a perfect position he could see him from his place at the altar. Sweet Merlin, he had orchestrated everything, hadn’t he? Just how bad did he have it for that young man? Narcissa felt sick at the thought this was one question that didn’t need answering: the magic she felt between them could only be interpreted one way: pure, unfiltered, undiluted love; the oldest, the most majestic kind of it. The most powerful magic of all, the magic that ultimately brought Lord Voldemort down and changed all their lives. Their insignificant schemes and feeble plans vanished into the thin air at its presence, this was what held true power.

And suddenly she felt better, more at peace. With this behind him, Draco was safe. Perhaps he didn’t understand true nature of these things, but wherever he went, this love will lead the way for him, and perhaps there was still hope for him to be happy. He had taken his place next to his father by the altar and cast what was just first of many looks in the direction of Ron Weasley. And the young man smiled at him, sad broken smile from somewhere inside his lovely eyes, but it had made her son straighten up and face whatever life had in store for him with quiet inherent force.

The melody that started announced the arrival of the bride and when the rest of the wedding guests turned to watch the beautifully adorned young girl walk down the aisle, Narcissa saw her son discretely pull at the thin necklace he always wore around his neck and remove something, keeping in safely tucked in his fist. And the eyes of Ron Weasley, the only other person that was not watching the bride, got impossible big and blue at the gesture. He must have known what was in that fist and Narcissa thought she knew it, too.

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
		1	2	3	4	5
6	7	8	9	10	11	12
13	14	15	16	17	18	19
20	21	22	23	24	25	26
27	28	29	30	31

my_thestral

◾ Fic: Art of denial (Part 11/2)

Fic: Art of denial (Part 11/2)

Profile

August 2017

Most Popular Tags

Expand Cut Tags

Style Credit